The little boy found
by louderthansirens
Summary: Set about a year before the first season: It's her day of death and it's hard to deal with, his father being away. All alone Stiles, stricken with fever and confused, decides to get really drunk and runs into the woods... where he meets a certain, lonely sour wolf. - Very mild Sterek


Heeey, guys :)

I'm a real sucker for Teen Wolf right now and yeah, it was time, that's my first TW-Fanfic :) Finally! I was in Italy for vacation and one morning I woke up, this little one-shot almost complete in my head~

So, I haven't watched the second season Teen Wolf finale yet (the last two episodes), that's why I have some little headcanons about the Stilinski family and whatever; if there's more info about them in the last two episodes I won't use them! I'm gonna keep the finale for after my story :)

On the other side if I do make mistakes that relate to all the previous episodes please tell me about them and I'm gonna correct it then x)

(And gosh, I must be totally uncreative and I know his mum is used so often in fics, but I love writing about sick, hallucinating boys and there must be something wrong about me *uhumspencerreiduhumcriminalm indsuhum*)

In a time line this oneshot is set about a year or less before the first Teen Wolf episode ever.

Besides the charas and main background story, all mistakes and actions come from my head :) I don't know much about ADHD, too, but wikipedia was my friend; I do know things about colds, though; no beta-reader;

So, let the fun begin!

* * *

_The little boy lost in the lonely fen,_  
_Led by the wand'ring light,_  
_Began to cry; but God, ever nigh,_  
_Appear'd like his father in white._

_He kissed the child & by the hand led_  
_And to his mother brought,_  
_Who in sorrow pale, thro' the lonely dale,_  
_Her little boy weeping sought._

**_-William Blake_**

_5th November_

_20:33_

It's already dark when he comes home. The moon is rising, light's falling barely through the clouds. The air smells like rain.

Stiles doesn't mind turning on the light when he steps in, when he drags himself up the stairs, into his messed up room, falling onto his messed up bed, stretching his messed up body. His bag's thud is muffled when it lands on the ground, slipping from his hand. His legs are tired. His head feels like it's stuffed up with cotton balls. His throat's burning. His eyes shut down.

_This has been such a damn long day. Such a damn long shit day. Everything hurts, thanks to- No..._ It was his own fault. It's always his fault.

Stiles falls asleep right away, arm on his head, facing the ceiling.

His dad's not home yet.

_22:56_

A screeching sound rips him awake from his dreams. He's not sure if he should be thankful for the interruption or not... If he should be thankful for being pulled out of bed so cruelly. Stiles' memories of the last thoughts... He shakes them away.

It's better to be awake now, he says to himself. Definitely.

But no matter how hard he tries he can't shut out the screams that seem to have been mixed with the familiar car noises from outside, they're still spooking around in his ears and he wishes they'd just quit. He's trying to focus on other things.

_Dad needs to have a look on his car really soon, it sounds awful... otherwise... _

No, that's still not the right thing. Before thinking any further, fear grips him. _Don't even think about it. Don't think about him dy- Stop it._ Stiles hand is running over his face.

He believes that things you think about are more possible to become real and _that_ is something he definitely doesn't want to be real. _Forget about it._

Stiles gets up from his bed, too fast, he stumbles over a bunch of school books and almost collides with the doorframes. He needs to see his dad now. More desperately then he feels comfortable with.

Stiles hears the door opening, he practically slides down the stairs, clinging to the banister; the kitchen light is on.

"Dad?", he rasps, shocked by his own voice. He's too quiet, he won't hear him.

The sheriff's rushing around in the house. The door is still open.

"Dad?", Stiles repeats louder. The man stops in his tracks, surprised by hearing the voice out of nowhere; he didn't expect his son to be awake when he came home and he hasn't heard him coming down.

He steps around the corner, glancing at Stiles who is still stuck halfway on the stairs. He seems uneasy... he _is_ uneasy. Of course. This day... It's difficult, not to say unbearable, for none of them. It's actually the worst. But he can't do anything about it. Not today.

"Stiles... Go to sleep. I need to get back to work."

"But-"

Mr. Stilinski shakes his head. "I'm sorry. Not tonight. It's an emergency." He's not lying, of course not. He wishes there was something he could do. "Do you want me to call-"

"No", Stiles breathes. It's quiet, almost unhearable, but it cuts the air. He doesn't look at his father. No, he doesn't need to talk to his aunt or his uncle who don't care anyway, he doesn't need to talk to his therapist; he needs to talk to his father. He feels damp and shaky and angry. All he wanted was his father to be with him tonight. Just this one night of all the nights. His jaw clenches.

The sheriff looks to the ground. He doesn't know how to respond. He would take his son with him to work, if he had some silent hours at the office, but like that, no, it's too dangerous. He can't take the risk of his son getting hurt because of him.

Stiles still doesn't give him a look. Mr. Stilinski sighs.

"Good night, Stiles. Please don't be mad at me."

With these words he steps out and closes the door behind him. He won't look back.

It's the first time Stiles is alone at home on his mother's day of death.

_23:42_

Stiles keeps staring at the wall.

The room is dimmed, almost completely dark. The moon is shining through the window._ Sick and pale, it looks,_ he thinks, _like mu-_ He shakes his head.

He actually wants to beat it into the wall he's been staring at for so long, for hours maybe; he has lost track of time.

_Don't think about it. Don't dare thinking about it. _He needs to remember his mum being happy, not sick. That's the most important thing. He glues his eyes to one of the few family portraits that have been arranged in the house. Mum on the left, dad on the right, he in the middle, tiny, with a big head, they're all smiling all over their faces, all being happy and probably they have never been happier afterwards.

He wants it to be over, but it never is. There are good and there are bad times. And now is a very very bad time. After all that happened these last days...

His father leaving was like a slap to his face. Stiles is alone now, he doesn't know how to spend the time; his father at least can rearrange his mind, concentrate on work, redirect his thoughts. But Stiles? He already feels bad, every time this year, every time this day, but some things had happened and it's just getting worse with this. It was unexpected, he was unprepared for him leaving and now he should just be sleeping over it? Not tonight. He just can't. He thinks about the word he's looking for, his mind is slow, but then it pops up. Abandoned.

Stiles doesn't notice his hand clenching around some piece of clothing he's sitting in between.

He misses her so much.

He has taken a shower which was supposed to help him calm down and it did - the warm water was a blessing these times of the year - but afterwards he felt deadly tired and this was awful, cause he didn't want to sleep. Not now. Not so soon. He didn't want to have another nightmare this time.

So he kept staring at the wall. Listening to the sounds in the woods; wind and animals, close and far away. But it begins irritating him. He feels the blood rushing in his ears, deafening him, defeaning his thoughts while he's trying to be positive but one sentence keeps coming up over and over again; feels his heart pumping faster and faster; feels the anger coming up, in waves, higher and higher_ - Why my mum? -_ until he finally jumps up and hits and throws his stuff around the room. He almost destroys his shelf and hurts his foot when he kicks against his bed. The rush is over in a minute. Panting he sits down at the same place as before.

Stiles feels a bit embarassed for acting so childish, but he also feels a little lighter, like a tiny bit of stone has been hit off his heart.

He'd always feel better, shaking the pain of her loss away by moving, by running around.

That's why he joined the lacrosse team.

Stiles doesn't care about being good or bad at sports, he just wants to move, and when his best friend told him he wanted to join the team, he felt like he had no other choice anymore. And it helped. He kept going to do it, even when he thought he didn't need it anymore. And he still enjoys going there, despite the jocks and despite the coach and despite the fact that he isn't used in the games a lot, but he had always liked it.

Today has been one of the all-over bad days, even ruining lacrosse for him - at least for a while.

About a week ago Stiles walked around in the woods with Scott; he didn't even know what they were looking for, maybe for the thrill, the kick, something like that. Once again he had the urgent need to move and he was with his best friend, so, why not?

In the end they had to stay for most of the night. They have been walking for a while and Scott had already complained a few thousand times and to be honest Stiles might have been a little tired, too, by then. But, although both of the boys had lived here for all of their lives, they got lost in the forest for the first time. It had started raining violently, so all disoriented they had to fight through the now blown-up storm. It was almost morning, when they found out of the forest and were found by the Sheriff; the friends were wet to the skin and chilled to the bones. Consequently they got sick. Scott only had a cold for maybe one or two days but he also had a nurse as a mum.

Stiles on the other hand didn't let his dad notice how he felt.

In a matter of days he developed a nice cold, the whole package; chest pains, lung pains, coughs, running nose, stuffed nose, stuffed head, pounding head, fever, heaviness, sleepiness, but he still went to school even though he fell asleep on his desk several times, resulting in several hours of detention; he kept going.

This day was no exception. Stubborn as he was he attended the lessons and came to the lacrosse training. Stiles though missed half of it as he was sitting on the bench, actually supposed to watch his team mates, but instead he was glancing around with half-closed eyes. His thoughts were far away from the game.

He wished he could kick his own ass and just tell his father what was up with him and how miserable he felt, but he shouted at himself, he couldn't tell that he needed him; his father needed his own strength, he could barely care for himself around these days, how should he care about him, Stiles? Anyways, he was up and around to work for most of the time so it was all the same. He wouldn't even have time for him. Stiles decided to ride it out.

Suddenly he was called out to come down to the field. It was drizzling again, like it was in the morning and practically more or less all day long. A lot of the players have been sick - like him - but they stayed home - not like him - so it was pretty much his time to shine. On wobbly legs, breathing through his mouth he stepped down and was placed on the field. They were going to practice a run-through.

When the whistle trilled, Stiles winced, his ear rang loudly, suddenly everyone was running around. He couldn't move. He stood there, staring at the others stupidly. He saw the ball flying towards him, but instead of accepting it, instead of catching it, he ducked down. The rest of the team rushed through past him. Sluggishly he turned around and watched a goal being made.

Stiles could practically feel the coach's stinging eyes on his back but he didn't notice the confused looks from the other team mates.

_Concentrate. Keep it together, man,_ he thought to himself. Scott brushed past him, whispering something, but he couldn't hear it. The whistle shrilled once again and Stiles might have sworn his head was about to explode, but now he tried running. He tried.

His legs didn't belong to his body, they constantly slipped away under him. Or was it because of the wet grass? The coach was shouting something. Everything was dizzy. Everything was in slow-motion. Everything was mixed. He felt the sweat running down his back, though he had just started moving. His breath was short.

Then he felt something was different, some pressure against his arm and out of nowhere he had magically caught the ball. Stiles stopped running, looking around confused, looking at the ball, where did it come from and how in all of the world did he of all the players catch it, he couldn't look straightly, faces, colors, they blurred together, and he just stood there, rooted to the spot and he heard the shouts and the noises and more shouts and he felt the trampling steps approaching, felt it in his feet, but he still couldn't fucking move and then he was knocked over right from the front, and he felt the impact in his shoulder, being thrown backwards and he came up on the ground with this shoulder and the guy just landed on top of it and something exploded there, white and white and white pain and now he really couldn't move. Everything went black for a few seconds.

It hurt really fucking bad.

When he slowly woke up again the first voice he heard belonged to Scott but he still didn't understand a word. It was like he was speaking in another language, the words tumbling upside down... He took a few breaths before trying to sit up. At this rate he would have believed his shoulder was dislocated, just assuming from the amount of pain in there. All the other players gathered around him and he felt very uncomfortable, watched, laughed upon. He felt weak... Not that he wasn't used to it, but even weaker than before. Like a real failure. To everyone.

The words from his best friend and from the coach, they ran through his head but he wouldn't process them. Stiles thoughts were shut down, no access.

He just realized what had happened when he was already at the nursery station, about half an hour later; Scott was sitting next to him, eyeing him from the side - what Stiles didn't notice was Scott's face when he saw the colorful bruises on his friend's back - and the old nurse lady everyone feared to go to kept on mumbling and complaining. But this time he didn't mind. He heard her telling him that his shoulder was contused, his head was okay, but if he didn't have that cough of his treated he might get pneumonia, blah blah... he didn't care.

Stiles was sent home immediately. Scott had suggested to accompany him going there, but he had been stopped by some teacher who wanted to talk to him about his grades. Stiles smiled weakly, pulling some joke, masking up the disappointment.

He arrived at home after wandering around for three hours.

He didn't wanna step over the door frame.

_6th November_

_00:00_

Stiles looks at the clock for what feels like the millionth time. He breaths out heavily. _Finally._ Finally that stupid day is over. And he did it.

He didn't have a panic attack.

He didn't cry... Well, even if he had wanted to, he simply couldn't. Not since the day his mum died.

He did all of this without Scott.

He also did all of this without his dad.

And with that thought he gets angry.

He still feels useless, trapped in his body, unable to do something productive with himself and he's sure as hell not going to go to bed. Not with this stuff in his head.

He needs to move.

Without thinking any further Stiles runs down the stairs, he almost falls down as he trips, and he runs directly to his father's shelf in his office, quickly finding what he's been looking for.

Mr. Stilinski isn't a big drinker; he won't notice the missing bottle of Jack Daniel's until it's too late and then he'd think he'd drunk it long ago. It's half empty but still more than enough for him.

Stiles takes a big gulp. At first it tastes surprisingly sweet, then it burns awfully in his sore throat. He almost spits it out again, but only almost. He forces himself to take it down. Gasps for breath. His head's spinning. His heart's racing, due to the shortage of breath or due to the fact that he is stealing from his dad - but that's stupid, they live in the same house. Shakes his head in disgust of the taste, feels the liquid running down and burning him up from the inside. Stiles looks at the brown bottle in his hands.

He feels okay. He'll feel okay for a long time.

He smiles as he walks out the door.

_00:56_

Derek smells the scent of the alcohol from the beginning on, right when Stiles leaves the house.

Unmistakenly the stupid person decided to come his way. If he or she is actually accountable, well, then he or she decided it. Probably the person isn't.

He's going to stay calm. Hide. Make them think the house is abandoned. Or maybe he'd chase them away, like he always does in summer, when kids are playing truth or dare in here, not letting him alone in his home.

He's not gonna let anybody enter this house.

_01:35_

By now Derek has realized it's a drunk man. He heard the mumbling, sometimes the flat singing, the faint beating of his heart, hops when he trips over a branch, the slurry steps. Definitely drunk, he states. But that's not all to it. There's something to the scent, he's not quite sure what it reminds him of. Hospitals, maybe. Sickness, he guesses. Oh boy, what fun.

Derek's so not in the mood to welcome some stupid idiot to come over and disturb his peace. Not that he hadn't already disturbed his peace by existing. But, no... Especially tonight he doesn't need the company of a sick drunk in his house. He wants to be all alone, by himself. He doesn't want to deal with this shit now. It's november again and he's up for some wallowing in self-pity.

He hopes the guy wouldn't want to sleep here. Most of the place still looks like shortly after the house burnt down. Of course the ashes have been blown away long ago. But there's barely furniture. Nothing to sleep on for humans, except the bare ground, which is enough for Derek at least. Not a nice place for humans to sleep. But if he's drunk... who knows how low his standards are now?

Derek sighs annoyed. No. Unmistakenly the guy's almost here. The smell's really intense now, swirring around. He buries his head in his hands and waits for it to be over.

_01:44_

Stiles regrets he hasn't taken a flashlight with him. It's pitch-black. He can practically see nothing and once in a while he bumps against a tree. But the alcohol drowns the pain deep inside. Besides feeling heavy and tired and like sleeping in right away, besides the dry mouth and the burning throat and besides the dizziness and the feeling he would throw up every moment, he feels great. He slurs something, words strung together, he's not even listening to himself at all and he's sure no one else does; sometimes he even strikes up a song, but no one would sing along. All of a sudden he feels very very lonely. Stiles stops in the middle of the woods, staring blankly in front of him if there was something to see.

A ray of moonlight falls through the leaves and enlightens a small piece of environment. Stiles takes a look at the bottle in his hand. Still something left. He didn't need much to become completely waisted. Then he looks around, at the trees, dark trees everywhere, shadows everywhere, but no life, when his glance stops at the sight of a house gone to rack.

It's like it's brightened up, in his imagination white and shiny and glittery and then he's sure, he knows he'll find his mum there.

_01:50_

The expected knock droned through the house, shaking the walls. Derek keeps still, thinking, repeating, _go away, you fool, go away and never come back._

Stiles knocks another time. Derek hears him breathing heavily, the scent of Jack Daniel's is already filling his head. He hates it. _Go away._

He doesn't know the boy hesitated a long time before he had the courage to knock on the door; not because of the decayed building, not because of the black night and the monsters it might hide - he had totally forgotten it was night, to him it was just dark -, not because he could be in danger, all on his own.

He hesitated because his mind is playing tricks on him and he knows it does, but he doesn't know what's real and what's not real anymore and if his mum might be dead, she might also be alive, right? At the same time he's so scared to find out. He sighs, puts his head against the door and knocks again. He can't go home without assuring himself. He has to find out.

No answer. Derek doesn't move from the spot, waiting more or less patiently for the boy to go away. His heart almost stops when he hears the soft mumbling breaking the night.

"Mum, please, open the door."

Judging by the heart rate and the rather lightweight steps he already assumed the drunk guy was still a kid, but he was a little overwhelmed nonetheless. He rises his head. The heart starts beating faster, now that he spoke the thoughts.

"Mum..." Stiles falls into a heavy coughing fit, turning around, leaning against the cold door with his back. Looking up and trying to find the stars, but there's nothing to see.

But he had felt okay before... Why is it so devestating now? So crushing? Why do his legs feel like giving in, blown away by the sadness?

Why did he think he'd find her, here, in this place, at this time? How stupid of him ...

He feels drained. Sucked out of energy. His head is all fuzzy and he notices something isn't alright up there... One moment he feels like he's captured in ice, so damn cold, the other moment he wants to pull off his jacket and jump into the stream. His eyes close slowly, he sways and he loses balance.

The door's being opened.

The boy only realizes he's been falling when he's being caught, gasping, not expecting the movement, the sentiment in his stomach when he's approaching the ground, the same you have when the plane is landing, the same you have as a kid when your mum throws you up in the air to catch you with firm hands, these firm hands are on his back. His eyes fly open. The bottle falls from his hand, meeting the ground with a thud and what little was left seeps into the floor.

"Mum?", Stiles repeats, not more than a breath, eyes wide open in shock, not daring to move, not daring to look. Hopeful. The image of his mum catching him now, like she used to when he was a toddler and hugging him and being all well and okay and nice and happy and just here and warm, so warm. She's warm. So comfortably warm. He's about to ease into the hug.

"No."

Stiles tenses at the unexpected rough, dark voice, almost barking, unfriendly, his instincts telling him to watch out. He swallows hard.

Carelessly Derek pulls up the uninvited visitor on his feet, harshly grabbing his shoulders - it hurts a lot and Stiles can't suppress a whine, can't explain what happened, like someone pulled the rug out from under his feet and pulled his voice with it - and turning him around. "You need to go back home."

When he's being honest to himself in this moment, the look in the boy's eyes might have maybe shattered a little piece of his heart. Though they're watery and unclear, he definitely realizes Derek is not his mum; she's not here and she will never be. His shoulders sink down, resigning. All of a sudden it seems like the effects of the whisky leave his body all at once and he feels like a big piece of shit. Derek has to stop for a minute cause seeing a human face has been more of a surprise to him than expected.

_Not alone anymore._ Derek blinks the thought away, taking down his arms from the boy's shoulders. He nods into the woods. "Go home."

Stiles wants to answer, but he can't even say a word before his legs drop under him again and everything fades into darkness.

_02:10_

_The kid has been here for long enough_, Derek decides, watching the slim chest rising and falling unsteadily, listening to the muttering words spoken into the darkness. Of course the werewolf hasn't lit the room. The last thing he needs is someone recognizing him and connecting him to his dark past. Though he doesn't think the kid might remember something at all after this kind of night; he'll have a nice hangover. Derek growls quietly.

When Stiles had lost consciousness Derek concluded he had no other choice then dragging him inside, whether he wanted or not. Even a blind man could see or rather feel that Stiles had a fever and was down and out, in pain, probably both physically and emotionally. And dragging him through the woods, with this wind, this cold, all the branches hanging in their way... It would have been the easiest way to get rid of him, sure; but even when he had caught him the first time the heat radiating of him was alarming, even to Derek whose body temperature is a little higher than human's in general. And maybe he really should do something. Just for a tiny bit of time. Come on, he can't even look at the poor guy anymore. In an hour he'd have brought him back home and everything will be normal again.

Derek tries not to wonder why all of a sudden he doesn't have anything against the company anymore.

So he thinks of all the small things about colds he has ever overheard in his life. Derek will never experience a flu to himself, thanks to the great immune system that runs in his family, thanks to the werewolf genes. What should he knew about colds? No one in his family would get sick of this - he knows about how to treat flesh wounds and deeper wounds and wolfsbane, of course, but he doesn't know much about a simple cold and somehow he feels dumb now.

Should he try to cool down the fever? Or is it important to keep him warm? He really doesn't know what to do and Stiles leaning onto him, the body heat, the faint breath, the heart silently beating in his chest is even more distracting and he's pushing the question why he felt like that far, far away.

Derek decides to go with making the place as comfortable as he can for the kid. Eventually he places the now awoken Stiles in a corner of his house, pretty oblivious to him and to himself, and leaves to find some supplies. On the upper floor he finds an old, dusty pillow, but it's better than nothing; and after he gives it to the boy he goes for the next to him logical step and guesses, it would be best to try to cool him down for a while. It can't be right to have such warm skin. In conclusion he takes a towel and drenches it in a stream in the forest.

When he comes back Stiles lies on the ground, head on the pillow, eyes closed, arms and legs drawn to his middle. He shakes slightly. All of a sudden Derek feels very uneasy himself. He's not used to it anymore, not used to care about someone, especially someone he doesn't know at all. To have something like sympathy for another person, it feels all kinds of wrong but at the same time he feels better than his best time in the last years summed up and it's just plain confusing.

He comes closer, just a few steps, but close enough to stretch out his arm with the damp towel, to reach Stiles, and far enough to keep his comfortable distance. Closely looking at the pale face he sees how vulnerable the boy actually is and a shiver runs down his spine. That's so wrong. No one should have to be so easy to hurt. _You're like a bull's eye for the bad guys._

Some drops of water drip on the floor and Stiles won't move at all.

"Uhum", Derek breaks the silence, hoping the guy would maybe, somewhen, finally open his eyes. Not that he was dying away in front of him. He moves the piece of fabric in front of his face. "Would you- Would you maybe- Hey, you!" Stiles moans disgruntled, frowns and turns around wearily, his back is now facing the werewolf. Derek growls unnerved. Why did he get himself into this in the first place?

Unsure of how to behave and deeply puzzled, he makes a few more steps towards Stiles and shakes his shoulder; not as rough as before when he saw him standing in his door, but softer and carefully, trying to make him open his eyes.

"Hey, you", he says again, quiet. "Would you maybe, uhm... I got this thing to... cool you... off?" He flutters the black towel around, his brows rising, even his voice rising a tiny bit. Stiles doesn't answer. "I don't know, maybe, just... put it on your head?" Still no answer. _Well then..._ Determined Derek lays the towl on Stiles' forehead, backing off and hissing when the boy suddenly turns around, faster than he would have expected him to be, arms all flailing around, slipping down from the pillow and throwing the towel away. He almost hits the werewolf.

"What're you doin'!?", Stiles exclaims indignantly, hands on his face, rubbing his eyes. "What was that for?"

"I thought you were hot", Derek shoots out, just realizing how wrong it sounds after he said it out loud, backpedaling. "I mean, you felt hot, like you have a fever and what you stupid humans- what you can get." He hopes Stiles is so much out of it he didn't hear what he just said, and it seems like he's lucky with that.

The boy sits up inconveniently, clearly desorientated. "... I don't feel hot", he answers after a few minutes of silence. His voice sounds raspy, dry and sore. He's slurring the words. He leans to the wall, his eyes concentrating on the ground. He can't see much. "I'm cold as fuck." Stiles rises his head, eyes half shut. "Where am I?"

"You-" Derek stops himself. "You don't need to know. I'm gonna get you back home. You're not supposed to be here." He stands up, gesturing towards Stiles to do the same. The boy has slept enough. Derek immediately has to bring him back.

"Home..." Home sounds like a good idea, Stiles figures. He doesn't know how he got here and where he is and who this voice is and the guy belonging to it and actually he doesn't know a thing and it starts being uncomfortable and scary and yeah, home, home is good.

"Come up now", Derek disturbs his thoughts surprisingly calm. Stiles looks up to him, to the blurry shadow; he narrows his eyes, shaking his head in confusion when a question pops up in his mind. "Who are you?"

"Does that matter now?" Okay, maybe the calmness would be away quicker than he expected.

"Did you do something to me?", Stiles continues, suspiciously, but still silent, as if it wouldn't change a thing if he did so and it upsets Derek more than he likes it.

"No, but I might if you don't get up now", he spits.

Again he regrets his words once he sees Stiles' terrified expression. His mouth open in disbelief, his brown eyes filling with tears at the shock, trembling, his heart beating so fast it's rushing in his ears. The boy's hardly keeping it together and he's threatening him... _Stop it. Remember, he's a sick, drunk kid, get a grip on yourself, take him away and make him forget the whole thing._ "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."

Stiles swallows hard and mutters a quiet "Sorry." That's been enough. _You better shut up now, for your own good, Stiles. _With all his might he tries to stand up, stabilizing himself by leaning on the wall, but something's not really right with him, he just can't come up with the muscle strength and before he's all standing up he's already facing the ground, when he's being caught again and somehow this becomes something like a little game they'd play, but it's embarassing; he feels very embarassed and maybe he should stop now and go home and hope he'll never see that man again so he can't make fun of him for this ridiculous show of faintings.

"Sorry", he mumbles again, his face somewhere into Derek's shoulder now and he notices it's so warm and he's almost sleeping in right at that place. He closes his eyes and in between a second he's somewhere else.

"So... sorry, mum."

Derek's first reaction is to tell Stiles again, no, he's not his mum, but Stiles gets there first. "Sorry I let you ... down. ... my fault... really sorry... Should've been... there..." And for a moment he thinks the boy is crying so he pushes him away, still holding his shoulders to not let him fall down and he looks into his face and, oh thank god, he's not crying, but he looks like he's about to. His eyes are shining and he looks so damn sad, so desperate, so guilty, as if everything bad in the world would have come down on him. But he's not crying.

Derek's a bit surprised, having experienced drunks get emotional very fast, but, no, Stiles isn't shedding a tear. He relaxes a bit.

"Stop saying, you're sorry", he answers, looking right into Stiles's eyes and searching for the glimpse that told him this sentence has arrived in his head.

He's so late to bring the boy home, he was completely crushed already when he stood in his doorframe, he can't even stand anymore on his own now. And the first time since Stiles dropped in like an hour ago Derek feels some kind of responsibilty to look out for him, to care for him and he finds out how he can help him and maybe he'd like to punch himself in the face right now for not thinking of it earlier. "How are you feeling?"

Stiles blinks. He understands he's not talking to his mum, he's talking to some strange... stranger, but the sound of the words is soothing and comforting and he finally gets what he wanted to ask from his dad but didn't dare to ask for: attention.

"... need water." He sniffs. "Throat's... dry." And as if he needed a prove he started coughing violently, and without Derek's hands he'd have a date with the dirty floor again. "And.. still feel cold. Want my bed. Want my mum, my dad. You know..."

"I'll see what I can do for you."

_2:57_

Derek's car rattles settle down as he stops in front of the Stilinski house.

The light in the kitchen is turned on and the door stands wide open. But nobody's home. He turns around to Stiles sitting next to him, head on his shoulder, quietly snoring. He's tucked up in a blanket; Derek found it by chance, in the back of his car, not even knowing that old thing actually existed. And on their way to Stiles' house he had stopped at a gas station to get a bottle of water for the boy.

Stiles slept through most of the ride, but it didn't seem to be a nice sleep. He mumbled something all the time, incoherent babbling maybe, the sentences torn to pieces and he didn't look peaceful while doing so. He's still alarmingly warm and keeps on getting wearier and wearier. It became more difficult to wake him up by each time, but Derek couldn't make him staying awake. He couldn't find the right way to do so. But now Stiles could go home and lay down and have his father looking out for him.

He probably was already on the run to search him. He must have come home middle in the night just to find his son's bed empty. He must be panicking, leading a big search troop. Leaving the house in a hurry, not caring about the lights or the door, not caring if someone stole the whole furniture. Just looking for his son.

Derek realizes the whole thing just got a lot more complicated when he deciphers the name belonging to the door bell.

"Stilinski?" If his father's really on the run at the moment he needs to disappear as fast as he can. He doesn't want an encounter with this man.

Carefully he opens the car door, unbuckles Stiles' belt and picks him up with no effort. Stiles mumbles some protest, coughing into his ear and it tickles, but Derek keeps going. Just a few minutes, then he has solved the problem.

Stiles is awake now, feeling all dizzy and swaying as his point of view is being the one of a rolled-up carpet thrown over Derek's shoulder; he's bobbing up and down, only seeing the everchanging ground. He figures it's better to keep his eyes closed for not to puke. Listens to the heavy steps, recognizes the sound of the ground in the kitchen, the carpet stairs. Derek follows Stiles' scent to where it's the strongest to find his room. Cautiously he steps over the variety of stuff lying around - mostly clothes that needed to be washed and school stuff - and lays the boy down on his bed.

Stiles wants to say something, but his mouth won't open and when he realizes that he also has forgotten what he wanted to say, he just keeps staying still. But for the first time he has a good, clear look at the stranger's face glancing down on him; blue, serious eyes, black hair... Then he disappears from his sight.

The boy turns around clumsily and powerless, now being completely consumed by the warmth and kindness and softness of his beloved bed and he feels like he has never appreciated it more in his life.

He ends up outstretched, with his arm on his head, facing the ceiling.

* * *

His father comes home from work shortly after to find a note on the door telling him to immediately look at his son; he came home to find a very sick Stiles suffering from a cold in his room, all on his own and he feels like someone kicked him in his stomach. He throws the note away.

Weeks later Stiles is bored and once again alone at home. After his dad inevitably had found out about his sickness he recovered pretty fast. And he had also recovered from the hangover he had the next day from drinking the whisky, though it mixed up with the usual cold and he just generally felt miserable all over.

Of course he didn't tell his dad, that he stole whisky from him, but the fact that he had been drinking something, and that he drank a lot of the something, wasn't difficult to notice. He felt lucky his dad never mentioned it.

His dad also never mentioned how sorry he felt and how stupid when he found out about him being sick and he never mentioned the even more embarassing fact that he got a sticky note from someone who clearly had to bring his son home and tell him to look out for him. He wasn't sure if he wanted to punch the person for opening his eyes or if should just be thankful. The last option was eradicated very soon.

When his dad discovered the bruises he flipped out before Stiles had any time to explain what really had happened. He wandered up and down in Stiles' room with such a rage that he threw down a mug; it must have been the first time Stiles was a bit afraid of what his dad was capable of doing. He wanted to drag him to a doctor, but Stiles insisted nothing has happened to him when he was away. He told him about the lacrosse training and he insisted he was just walking around and somewhen in the night came back to his room. But the sheriff knew about the note and Stiles didn't and of course he didn't believe him. Eventually he stopped asking questions.

The worst thing though is that up to now Stiles still has no idea what has happened that night. He knows he had stolen the bottle and he ran outside and the next thing he knows is he's lying in his bed. Everytime he tries to remember his stomach's growling. It's terrifying not to know what happened to you. That black hole in your memory...

Nevertheless Stiles is bored so he decided to look at his father's stuff in his desk. Somehow he got used to it once he tried it not long ago, looking at the super secret files, finding out what shit was going down around them and sometimes he'd call Scott and tell him about it and they'd be sniffing around for real. His dad hasn't caught him yet.

Stiles doesn't feel like it's cheating or lying to his dad, just keeping it a secret to himself; he needed to concentrate on something, needed to sort out his mind, think about something else that was not him or his fucked up mind. So, how about some murders?

While he's flipping through the pages, a picture of a young man, about his age, catches his eye. Blue eyes, dark hair... He doesn't know why he stopped and he doesn't know why he's so interested in especially this file, it's like he's seen him before but he can't refer to how and when; he has to find out more about him. He reads out his name, Derek Hale, and slowly sinks into the story of the burnt down house of the Hale family. In the end he thinks Derek seemed so familiar to him because he had already heard of the case.

After Scott's being bitten and he and Stiles wander around in the forest and when they meet Derek, he has already heard them long before they noticed him. He recognizes Stiles' voice and he curses why does this boy have to be drawn into this fucked up story. He shouldn't be here. He should be kept out of the world of the werewolves. He had already gone through enough shit.

He hears Stiles being all enthusiastic about his story, about the story of his family dying and being all like "How do you not know Derek Hale?" and Derek's keeping his poker face; what if Stiles despite of his sickness and being drunk, what if he would remember him? But when the friends stop and stare at him he doesn't see the flicker in his eyes, the little thing that would tell him he knew him. He suppresses a relieved sigh.

It's good when he can maintain the stony mask of the untouchable, unemotional werewolf. It's a mask to help him survive, just like Stiles' funny, ironic joker mask is.

But it's too late to have him staying out of the story, it's too late to throw him out, he can see it and he wonders if the boy will ever be alright.

* * *

*Hallelujaah!*

This took me more time than expected but, hey! I did it! *wohooo*

I hope you like it! I did my best and to be honest I'm pretty proud - I still feel like writing is a very hard thing to do. xD

So, I'm happy about everything you want to tell me and if you liked it or not or what you did or didn't like, I'm open for anything and I suck in every little piece of criticism you wanna throw at me :)

Big thanks to you for reading this far!

Love,

Lexa


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